


Fire Ritual

by EbonyGaze



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gore, graphic mentions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22829122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyGaze/pseuds/EbonyGaze
Summary: Michael Myers’s final moments on Halloween night of 1978. Short story based on the ending of Halloween II.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Fire Ritual

Darkness — black, perplexing darkness. Only this time, he isn’t using it to his advantage like he had a few hours prior. His eyes are sight deprived, sitting like oozing, chunky curds through his eyelids. Red drizzles over the ashen cheeks of his mask in thick, syrupy streams, moving along its contours… more prominent against the ghost white as opposed to his jumpsuit’s navy blue. Except now, it’s stained the coarse fabric now that it’s dry, and can be made out as a brownish, muddy color, much like rust. Where his eyes once were intact feels slimy, goopy, matting his eyelashes as his palm reaches for the rubber eyeholes. Shrill words — his sister’s — ring in his ears as a warning before two bullets begin to rip tatters in his skin. So this is what it must be like to be in the place of his victims, to be the helpless one.

  
  


Michael Myers is kept at bay.

  
  
  


He doesn’t know why his hand moves to his silicone face, it just does. He doesn’t know there is an artery ruptured inside of him, a leakage happening in his chest, or that he had a look-alike who burned to a crisp in a car collision. Doesn’t know his childhood home was bombarded with rocks, or that his parents died in a car accident when he was a teenager. There’s a lot he still doesn’t know, and may not ever learn about; the boogeyman isn’t an omniscient god like people fear. And now being blind, it rings true even more.

  
  
  


His fingers smear blood over his face sloppily, and the thick liquid still rolls slowly down his cheeks. His most useful yet most vulnerable organs now do nothing for him, except bleed and gush idly from his skull. Two red and white fucking duds that no longer help in his hunt for Laurie — _Laurie, Laurie, Laurie_. He knows it, knows that even plebeians can overpower him now that he’s in this trap of impotence… fucking vulnerability. In Haddonfield he reigns supreme. He knows they shudder at the sound of his name, based on what he heard from the hospital staff. Except that’s about to be taken from him… yet his equilibrium remains, probably because he doesn’t think so; he’s still calm, still moving with slow, mechanical steps, all while being in a haste to find his sister. If his other senses, such as his hearing, don’t fail him, maybe he’ll get his way and finally feed the beast inside of him that salivates and wants. Feed he will do, anything — whatever it takes to shut its snarling snout.

  
  
  
  


It listens with alertness and hears its target yelp and panic — to its right it thinks — but it still doesn’t know where exactly she is in the operation room. She sounds close, but just how close? No other sound is present but hers. Its annoying doctor is cold on the ground, bleeding from wherever its scalpel dug into; the last attack it could protect itself with while staring blankly into the revolver’s muzzle. One fast jab of the scalpel is all it can remember before the revolver falls and clatters in defeat. But little does the Shape know Dr. Loomis is still alive, pretending that it — his patient, his obsession — really did kill him. It doesn’t care too much about him, though, not while Laurie’s name is scribbled all over its mind, but this will come with a considerable cost.

  
  
  
  
  


Its scalpel swings accordingly, wherever noise comes from. Another noise that it almost fears comes from behind, the sound of cloth shifting and sliding against the glossed floor. Dr. Loomis must still be alive… goddammit. Now it realizes the threat that he poses to it, or thinks about it. In paralyzing fear, its prey watches the harsh swipes of its scalpel as it desperately attempts to hurt her. _Closer, closer… sister…_

  
  
  
  
  


Every airy swipe infuriates Michael, causing a searing heat to amass and burn his insides, like a fuming grenade. It could be him or the beast that is furious… probably both. Blood still drips, not only from his eye sockets but his bullet wounds as well, old and fresh alike. He should be aching, forced to choke down some of the worst pain known to man. Right about now, he should have collapsed to the floor to be declared dead. Nobody knows what he is, where this godly durability comes from or how it’s even mundanely possible, yet they’re too afraid to know. Either they rise above their fear or wallow in ignorance. Plebeians don’t know any better, they don’t, except for Dr. Loomis — something even Michael can admit about the psychiatrist. He knows well, all too well, to not take awareness lightly, and because this is true, it makes him Michael’s biggest pest. He’s… smart, acute. Back at Smith’s Grove he noticed that he used big words, and he spoke to him and the nurses clearly and directly. All of those years of sessions and medicine that Dr. Loomis provided still didn’t accomplish much, but he didn’t always follow the agenda. He made decisions that didn’t conform to what was appropriate in the eyes of psychiatry. That’s what the nurses said at least. Tonight Michael has seen that rule-breaking personality come forth, like when he demanded Marion Chambers to use the now dead marshal’s two-way radio. Dr. Loomis was always checking up on him with cautious eyes, as if he knew what dark wiring in his head was happening beyond the years of staring at his cell wall. If Michael could fear anything, it’d be Dr. Loomis’s lack thereof… if he isn’t afraid, then he holds no power over him. When he has no power, he can’t get his way. And when he can’t get his way, he can’t satiate the beast.

  
  
  
  
  
  


His bloody, precarious scleras distract him from the twists and turns of his body, leaving him unsure as to what direction he’s facing. By this point Laurie could’ve scurried off, and maybe she has. If she did, then he didn’t hear her. Disorientation is yet another threat to him and he clenches his teeth, following a coat of sweat from the dilating pores of his forehead. The amount that the mask mystifies… 

  
  
  


A screechy sound of metal comes from the corners of the room’s walls, confusing him. What the hell is going on? If only he could see, if he could have one last chance to impede their attempts of getting away. Of keeping the beast from eating. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He feels hot, as though he could burn something if he touches it. His body jerks and stays in motion for what feels like forever, as long as he is trying to kill Laurie. The thought of his doctor disappears when he hears his British voice after a long lasting minute. If he could panic, he would be now. He knew that if he heard it again he’d be in trouble. And here he is now, despite not being able to see him, looking at his bloody eyed former patient with the coldest glare that his features can integrate into. A lighter is held between his fingers and thumb, positioned to burn the operation room down to broken plywood and ashes. Michael’s hand falls from his mask limply, as he’s conquered by the power Loomis is strangling him with — the first person to ever impose on him during his rampage. Inside the beast barks, nearly choked by its chained leash. After tonight, it will never bark again.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“It’s time, Michael.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Michael doesn’t have a moment to process what’s happening. An extremely loud noise snuffs out his hearing, then something hot swallows him whole, so fast and so viciously that there is hardly a transition between it beginning and seizing him completely. _Fire_. His jumpsuit darkens and holes split the fabric, reaching for what’s underneath. His pale flesh is rived by the flames and falls from his limbs, making way for the bones and muscles resting beneath the soft epidermis. Oh god the smell… even he notices it: the smell of his flesh melting like a candle. What a fucking awful smell. And the heat, the damn heat. It’s so fucking hot, ten times worse than what he had imagined during his staring days at Smith’s Grove. Blood, whatever amount of it that his bone marrow can still produce, builds up and seeps through the new openings of his body. A liberal amount of it falls from his disintegrating body as if he bathed in a tub of it. Smoke comes in big clouds, a forest of them growing in the hallway. The structure of the operation room collapses into a worthless pile of plywood. Everything is numb to Michael, except for the pain that the fire brings him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Haddonfield’s deadly Michael Myers is being eaten alive by the voracious fire. He cannot see his death unfold, only hear and smell it. It chants a grim whisper through his ears, exploding in volume the further he walks. Somehow he knows Laurie is watching him. He can feel her. He just does. This is all Loomis’s fucking fault. If he didn’t give her the gun, if he didn’t come to her rescue… the beast would be fed. What is it now? A starving animal. In a way, he is, too. Both of them are.

  
  
  
  
  
  


No longer is he a burning human being — he is now a walking mass of blood, boils, and waxy flesh. A tall skeleton with only chunks of muscle and tendons holding onto his bones… just a product of combustion shambling through the smoky foyer. He’s a dark grey color, any other color would require a closer look in order to be seen. Somehow he is still moving. Still conscious, still alive. Loomis… will pay… will… he will... no way is Michael seconds away from dying… he’ll track him down in the afterlife. He will, he... just fucking will. 

  
  
  
  
  


His mind is losing their thoughts, since his cerebrum is being melted into a pink, gooey mush. Before they’re gone forever, he fantasizes about Laurie’s corpse, what could’ve been. And now Loomis’s. He could’ve pinned them to the wall like he did to the man with glasses earlier tonight. He could’ve squeezed and crushed their windpipes until he negated ‘wind’ in the name. He could’ve cut his knife so deep into their throats that their heads would’ve dangled from their shoulders. Now look at who’s really dying. It’s humiliating, foul. Tonight he dies a loser.

  
  
  
  
  
  


His heart slows down to weak stammers. He takes one final step before all of his weight collapses onto the tiled floor. All sound is gone, all consciousness. So is the burning pain, the frustration, the hungry beast… its appetite is gone.


End file.
